


The Librarians of Baker Street

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Blow Jobs, Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Hand Jobs, Librarians, Library Sex, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, because John still has to be a BAMF even if he's a librarian, he already wears cardigans, medical emergencies in the library, not for the main characters though, references to heart attacks, they are very healthy as you see by chapter 3, unresolved in the first chapter at least, you can even picture him in glasses if that's what you're into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-01 07:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15769308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Sherlock is a cataloguer who's forced to work the reference desk once a week. Which he hates.  Or at least, he used to hate it, until the library hired a new reference librarian. Guess who?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0foxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0foxgiven/gifts).



> This is for [0foxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0foxgiven), (MasterofHounds on Tumblr), who was the highest bidder for my fic in the Fandom Trumps Hate auction. (Thank you so much for donating!) She said she likes to read AUs and also likes BAMF!John, so I did my best to combine those two things in a setting I happen to know all too well!
> 
> Thank you to [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna), [Ship221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ship221b) and [SherlocksSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister) for beta and Brit-picking assistance. Any mistakes that remain are mine! (Also, I stuck with American punctuation for this one, so please excuse that!) Any British librarians out there, feel free to let me know if I made any library-related errors. The Hartswood Central Library is a fictional location.

Sherlock Holmes was sitting at his desk, just doing his job, content in the mindless cataloguing tasks he'd set himself that morning, when his boss, Mike Stamford, the head librarian at Hartswood Central Library, stopped by and changed his life. 

Stamford himself wasn't particularly life-changing, of course; it was the man he brought with him who upended everything. Yes, Sherlock had known a new reference librarian was starting today, but no, he had not expected the small man who limped along with a cane and wore a stereotypical cardigan over a plaid shirt to so thoroughly catch his eye. It was rather embarrassing, to tell the truth. Sherlock never let himself be dazzled by other people, and a quick glance should have proved this man to be nothing unusual. Instead, Sherlock found himself staring over the top of his computer monitor, mouth agape. 

Stamford stopped near the end of the workbench, which was piled high with the usual assortment of half-processed books and other items that needed Sherlock’s attention. "This is Sherlock Holmes. He's our cataloguer. Sherlock, this is John Watson." Sherlock thought he detected a hint of smugness in Stamford's tone as he introduced them. Why would he be smug, though? It wasn’t as if Stamford could have known that John Watson was Sherlock’s type. Wait, what? Sherlock didn’t have a type. Did he? 

Caught off guard, he stood up and took a step around his desk toward John Watson before he even realised what he was doing. John smiled and switched his cane to his left hand so he could offer his right. Sherlock approached him cautiously, trying to pull apart the pieces and decipher what made him so intriguing: not much taller than Stamford, though considerably more fit, despite the limp. That was interesting, wasn’t it? No, wait. Was it interesting? Why? He was still trying to puzzle it out as they shook hands. John’s grip was strong and sure. There were definitely hints of muscle beneath that unassuming cardigan—Sherlock was shocked at how appealing he found the combination to be. 

John released his hand and shifted his cane back to his right side as he turned in a circle, surveying Sherlock’s workspace. Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, thinking he should return to his desk and at least pretend to work instead of staring at his new co-worker, but he found he couldn't even remember what he'd been working on. Adding a children's book into the catalogue? He glanced over at his computer—no, there was a pile of DVDs next to it. Right. He'd been printing shelf labels for the new films they'd just received. Normally he didn’t mind that type of easy, repetitive task, because it allowed him time to be alone in his mind, but now that sounded like the most boring job in the world. 

He returned his gaze to John and for the first time in his career wished he worked more hours at the reference desk. Then he'd be able to find out more about John. Like why there were tan lines on his wrists where they poked from beneath his shirt. Hadn't got that working in a public library in England, that was certain. He thought about it for a moment. Oh! Of course. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"Sorry?" John squinted at him in confusion. 

Behind John, Stamford let out a chuckle, and Sherlock bit his tongue. He should have attempted some sort of generic small talk first so he could make a good impression, but now it was too late. He was already committed. "Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?" he repeated, wondering if he'd set a new record for fastest alienation of a co-worker. 

"Afghanistan," John replied. "Sorry, how did you know...?" Surprisingly, he took a step closer, rather than fleeing for the office door. 

Stamford clapped his hands together, saving Sherlock from having to answer. "Well, that's about everything for the library tour, John. Any questions?" 

"Er, not really." John turned back toward Stamford briefly. "At my old job, the cataloguing department reported to the reference department." He glanced over at Sherlock. 

"That's ridiculous." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and drew himself to his full height. 

"You won’t need to worry about that," Stamford said. "Sherlock reports directly to me." 

John raised the hand that wasn't holding his cane. "Didn't mean to imply it should be otherwise." He took yet another step closer to Sherlock, though he wasn't looking at him but at the tower of unopened boxes that had been delivered this morning. "I'm sure I'll have my hands full in my department. How many people work here in cataloguing?" 

"Just me," Sherlock said, and stopped himself from adding "obviously" to the sentence. His office itself was rather large, since he needed space to work, but there was only one desk besides the workbench. 

"Really? I know all libraries have had their budgets cut, but that seems extreme." Rather than heading for the door, John came further into the office. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, noting the way John's shoulders moved beneath his cardigan with each step, and the play of the fluorescent lights on his hair—was it blond? Grey? 

John caught him looking and smiled. That smile, it was...what was it? Captivating, definitely. Suggestive? Certainly not, not with Stamford still standing only a few feet away. What would he even be suggesting? Interesting. Irrelevant, of course. Sherlock didn't do that sort of thing himself, but still. Interesting. 

He shook himself out of his unexpected stupor long enough to step back behind his desk before deciding that he had no interest in sitting down and returning to labelling DVDs. He wasn't sure what else he wanted to do, but maybe something more physical would be a good distraction. He strode across the room to the shelves and cabinets crammed full of stickers, stamps, tape, glue and all the other supplies he needed on a daily basis. Book jackets: perfect. He had a whole pile of books that needed to have protective sleeves applied to their covers. He grabbed a stack of books and set them down at the end of his workbench, pushing the paper cutter and laminating machine out of the way to give himself room to work. 

Stamford cleared his throat, startling Sherlock, who had forgotten he was still in the room. "Well, I've got to get back to my office. I've got a meeting with Mrs. Hudson from the board and if I keep her waiting she'll find Greg and start flirting with him again, and we don't need a repeat of that. Sherlock, don't forget you've got a desk shift at one." 

Sherlock snorted. He was unlikely to forget, though he'd been known to purposefully skip his weekly two-hour reference stint. Helping the public was really not his area, but Stamford liked to spout nonsense about it being every employee's duty. 

Stamford turned and left the office, closing the door behind him, but John didn't follow him out. Sherlock didn't understand. No one ever wanted to linger in cataloguing, much less with him. Unless. Maybe John's smile a moment ago really had been suggestive? He frowned, turning the idea over in his mind as he arranged his tape dispenser and scissors on the bench. 

"How did you know I was in Afghanistan?" John asked. 

Sherlock half-turned toward him, leaning a hip against the workbench. "Easy." 

"Oh." John started to walk across the room, seemingly very interested in all the cataloguing paraphernalia Sherlock had scattered about. "Mike must have told you I was in the army." 

"He didn't say a word," Sherlock said, swallowing. He knew intellectually that showing off was liable to make John dislike him, but some other, more basic part of his brain insisted that he should try to impress him. "I can always tell a lot about people just by looking at them." 

"Really?" John turned toward him. He didn't sound upset or even sceptical. He sounded curious, which was encouraging enough that Sherlock continued. 

"I know that you didn't grow up wanting to be a librarian—you just fell into a part-time library job while you were in uni. You thought it would be a good fit since you aspired to be a writer. But after working for a few years you got bored, so you joined the army to shake things up a bit. And you were happy with that choice until you got shot—not in the leg though, interesting. The limp’s psychosomatic, isn't it? You were discharged and came home to London and now you're back in the library world. Hoping you won't be bored." Sherlock lost his nerve at the end and looked away so he wouldn't see John's reaction. 

"That's...amazing." 

Sherlock looked up in surprise. John had made his way around the office and now stood at the other end of the workbench, less than a dozen feet away. "Do you think so?" The question was out of his mouth before he realised how needy he sounded, but John didn't seem to notice. 

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary." 

"That's not what people normally say." 

"What do people normally say?" 

"'Piss off'!" 

John grinned at him and Sherlock found himself smiling back. He was so unused to smiling at work that it felt unnatural. He reached for one of the books that needed covering to disguise his awkwardness. 

John turned and leaned back on the workbench, letting his cane rest against a book trolley overflowing with magazines meant to be recycled but that Sherlock had thought looked interesting enough to keep. 

"Careful, that trolley has a loose wheel." 

John gave the trolley a nudge with his foot, apparently needing to assess the danger himself, then waved a hand at the office around them. "How can you possibly do all this yourself?" 

Sherlock shrugged. "None of it is particularly difficult." He pointed to a small shelf behind his desk that was filled with rather decrepit-looking books. "Those old books are for the local history collection and they'll probably need original cataloguing, which takes a little bit of time, because I'm fussy, but everything else...." He shrugged again and looked away from John's gaze, because he wasn't sure what to do with the admiration he saw there. 

John cleared his throat. "Well, I guess it would be hard for anyone else to work in here, what with all this mess." 

Sherlock bristled. "It's not a mess. I know exactly where everything is." Sometimes he had to dig a bit to find it, true, but he always knew where to look. 

"I see." John pointed to an especially dense pile of books and papers. "What's all that?" 

"Items that need further attention. Their catalogue records are wrong, or they need special processing, anything that takes more time than average. I set them aside and work on them when I'm bored or after I've finished everything else." His system worked, even if it did look cluttered to a casual observer. 

"Right," John said, and Sherlock had a momentary twinge at the thought that he didn’t believe him. Which was ridiculous—since when had he ever cared what his co-workers thought of him? A second later John continued, "Well, Mike did say you were very good at your job, so I guess if the mess works for you...." He smiled again and Sherlock wondered how he was supposed to function with John standing there making his emotions swing so abruptly. Why had Stamford even brought him down here in the first place? 

John picked up his cane again and walked over to the shelves that lined the wall to the left of Sherlock's desk. "All these books are donations that you have to add to the collection?" 

"Obviously." It slipped out before he could stop it, but given that the shelving unit sported a yellowing label that read "Donations to Be Added," he couldn't be blamed. 

"You must be pretty quick, if you do all these yourself. I worked in cataloguing when I was getting my degree. Donations take a lot longer than new books that come pre-processed." 

Sherlock's face warmed as he realised John wasn't criticising, but praising him. "Really not that difficult. Slap on a plastic cover and barcode, add a few stamps. These are all popular titles, so there will be records in the catalogue already. Only takes a few seconds to find them and add our copies to the system. Simple." 

"Putting the covers on—that was the worst. Took forever." 

"Oh, it's not so bad," Sherlock said. He pulled one of the protective covers from the shelf, shaking it dramatically in the air before placing it on the workbench. "It just takes some practice and a steady hand." 

Wrong. He knew without turning to look that John had made a fist with his left hand and now was trying to hide it behind his back. Oh, he'd missed that on first glance: an intermittent tremor. John hadn’t been shot in the leg, but he had been shot. Shoulder, most likely, and the injury had been serious enough to cause some lasting nerve damage. And now Sherlock had made him self-conscious about it. Great. He looked down at his own hands and wondered how to fix it, then wondered why he was worrying about it. He offended his co-workers all the time. It was one way to liven things up when the work got boring. Why should John be any different, just because his back was broad beneath his cardigan and his eyes softened when he smiled and he asked Sherlock questions and said he was amazing instead of recoiling from him? 

He raised his shoulders, trying to pretend John wasn't standing across the room from him, and began to work. He could hear the thump of John's cane on the tile floor behind him, though the sound wasn’t moving toward the door. John was circling the office again, examining the shelves and cabinets. He'd said he'd worked in cataloguing before. Did he secretly long to have Sherlock's job? Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eye. No, everything about his manner, from his open, curious expression to the warm, welcoming colours he'd chosen to wear confirmed that he belonged in reference, helping people find what they needed. So why was he still hanging around here? 

John reached the far corner of the office and pulled open the wooden door that no one ever used, then immediately shut it. 

"Archives," Sherlock explained. 

"Yeah. Looks...old." 

"The far side opens into the reference office and most of the local history and genealogy collection that gets regular use is shelved on that side. No one ever uses this door." 

"I see." John crossed over to stand next to the workbench, closer to Sherlock this time. Sherlock continued to work, quickly placing book jackets into their protective covers and fastening them with a few pieces of tape. 

"Jesus, your hands are almost bigger than that book. No wonder you're so good at this." 

Sherlock froze mid-motion, leaving the cover of a cosy mystery half-secured. He frowned down at his own hands. Yes, they were nearly as large as a hardcover book, but why did John's voice sound like that—oh. So the suggestiveness he thought he'd detected in John's smiles earlier hadn't been imagined. His mind reeled a bit at the thought of someone as appealing as John being interested in him. 

No. He needed to nip this in the bud, for both of their sakes. Sherlock didn't do this sort of thing, and John would come to his senses once they worked together for a while and got to know each other better. He resumed covering the book, carefully not looking at John as he spoke. "If that's the sort of thing you're looking for, you'd be better off sticking with women." 

"Sorry, what?" 

Sherlock inhaled and still refrained from turning his head to look at him. "You're clearly bisexual, so if you're looking to have an affair with a co-worker, there are more available women here on staff than there are men." 

"So you're not...available?" 

Sherlock chose not to reply directly. "Have you met Molly Hooper yet? She’s the children’s librarian, though I think she prefers taller men. Janine's our volunteer coordinator, she's always on the prowl, but she only works Wednesdays and Fridays. If you can wait that long.” 

John took a half-step back and Sherlock congratulated himself on having overcome their apparently mutual attraction. "That's not—I wasn't—how could you possibly know I'm bisexual?" 

"Is it a secret?" 

"No." John stepped toward him again. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable." 

"I'm not uncomfortable." Sherlock tried to relax his shoulders. 

"Right. Okay." John rubbed at the back of his head, his tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip. "I should probably get back to my office." 

"Yes." Sherlock bit back a sudden urge to find something else to say that would keep John from leaving. He could show him the new replacement DVD cases he'd ordered—so sturdy, he could practically bend them in half without breaking them. No, why would he be impressed by that? Why did Sherlock want to impress him? He was just another co-worker. He probably wouldn't even stay long. He'd go on to a job at a bigger library and forget all about his time here. Sherlock blinked his eyes closed for a moment and exhaled as he heard John walk toward the office door to leave. It was fine. Let him go. He hadn't even known John existed before this morning, so why would he suddenly need to have him nearby now?


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock made it a point to arrive early for his reference desk shift that afternoon—not his usual habit by far, but he'd spent the rest of the morning getting nothing done in his own department because he hadn't been able to stop thinking about John Watson. He'd been so discombobulated that he'd cut himself opening a shipment of new books and then accidentally recycled the packing list before he'd been able to compare it to the order. 

Donovan and Anderson were staffing the desk when he arrived. Sally jumped at the chance to leave a few minutes early, disappearing into the reference office as soon as Sherlock appeared. Sherlock pulled one of the rolling chairs as far as he could to one side of the long, curved desk, which kept him well away from Anderson and out of sight of the people in the office behind him. He couldn't actually reach the computer from that position, but since he always tried to minimise the number of people he had to help anyway, he didn't really mind. He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes, hoping for a few minutes to clear his mind. 

"Sleeping at the desk?" 

Sherlock jumped at the words. John's voice: he had already learned it well enough that he would recognise it anywhere. He hadn't been sleeping, of course, but he was still startled enough that he sat up straight, dropping his feet heavily from the rungs of the chair to the floor. "Not asleep. Just thinking. Preparing for my shift." 

"Ah, well. Hope you're prepared, because we're starting now." John nodded at Anderson, who vacated the other seat, leaving behind a desk strewn with scraps of paper on which he'd jotted notes during his shift. 

"We?" Sherlock frowned. "I thought Lestrade was working this shift with me." Mainly because Lestrade was one of the few people willing to work beside him for two hours, but John didn't need to know that. 

"Nope. John grinned as he swept Anderson's notes into a tidy pile and then lowered himself to the chair, stowing his cane beneath the tall desk. "I offered to do it for him, figured I should jump right in and see what it's really like working here." 

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the plastic arms of the chair as he tried to determine if working with John was something he desired or objected to. Not that it mattered—no one else on staff was likely to be willing to cover this shift for him. He watched John as he scooted his chair up to the computer and proceeded to adjust the keyboard and mouse to his liking, his tongue darting out between his lips as he worked. Yes, that decided the matter—no one could be expected to resist the sight of John’s tongue. Sherlock hated working reference but these next two hours might be bearable. It would be a bit hard to concentrate, but it wasn't as if answering questions from the public required any amount of organised brainpower anyway. 

Sherlock moved his chair closer to John, who glanced over at him. "You're not wearing your staff badge." 

"Nope." 

John fiddled with the plastic tag that hung from his own shirt pocket. "Mike said everyone needs to wear one when we're working with the public." 

"John. I assure you, I don't need a badge to identify me as a staff member. Everyone who walks through that door and sees me knows that I work here." 

John looked him up and down. "I don't know. You don't really look like any other librarian I've ever known." 

Sherlock was 87 per cent certain that John's statement was meant to be flirtatious, but he couldn't verify it because some woman chose that moment to approach the desk, a stack of books in her arms. John gently directed her to the front of the building where she could check out her books, and Sherlock leaned back in his chair with an annoyed huff. 

"Not a fan of working the desk, are you?" 

Sherlock grimaced. "Not a fan of the public. She had all those books but she was too stupid to read the sign that says 'Borrowing'?" 

John laughed. "To be fair, it does say 'Enquiries' on that pillar right behind you, so she was right to ask here." 

Sherlock scowled and John laughed again, then slid his chair slightly to the side and beckoned toward the computer in front of him. "This catalogue system is new to me. Got any pointers on using it? Seems cumbersome." 

"It is, but I know a few tricks for searching." Sherlock rolled his chair up next to John's, his earlier resolve to keep him at a distance completely destroyed. John was a painfully slow typist, but he seemed to pick up on the quirks of the catalogue easily enough. Unfortunately, they didn't have very much time alone—for some reason a large percentage of library users preferred to ask at the reference desk when they wanted to know if a book or film was available, rather than simply using one of the public access catalogues themselves. Sherlock let John deal with everyone who approached, under the guise of giving him more practice with the computer. 

The shift got busier as it went on, though, until Sherlock wasn't able to avoid working. John was helping someone request a book be sent from another library when a woman walked up to Sherlock's side of the desk. "Do you have a medical section?" 

He sighed and waved his hand dismissively at her. "You should phone your doctor instead of wasting your time here. Regardless of what's causing the rash, it will need to be treated." 

"Sherlock!" John had finished his transaction with the other person, apparently. He stood up from his chair so he could insert himself in front of Sherlock. "I'm very sorry. We do have a medical reference section, as well as books you can check out. You may want to try an internet search instead, though. Medical information can change quickly, so books tend to get out of date easily." 

"Oh, I don't know how to go on the internet," the woman said. Which was ridiculous, because she appeared to be approximately the same age as Sherlock—she should know how to use the internet.

"I can help you," John said, and gave Sherlock a scowl as he stepped past him and around the desk to lead her to the row of public internet computers that lined the nearby wall. Great. Apparently John only enjoyed Sherlock's deductions when they weren't used to embarrass the public. He knew having a co-worker who liked him was too good to last. 

John was away from the desk for several minutes, assisting the woman even though she would have been much better off simply phoning her GP for an appointment. A couple of people looked as if they wanted to approach the desk for help, but a good stare from Sherlock made them think better of it. One teenaged boy, however, was not dissuaded. He walked up and leaned against the desk, fidgeting with some pencils that sat in a cup on the edge. Sherlock gave him his best intimidating glare, but the boy paid no attention, too caught up in his need to ask whatever inane question he might have. 

"I'm looking for a film to watch." 

"DVDs are right over there." Sherlock pointed to the shelf that was filled with cases, not 20 feet away from them, beneath a giant sign reading "DVDs." 

The boy frowned and squinted into the distance—he needed glasses but didn't like wearing them in public. Typical teenager. Sherlock returned his attention to watching John as he straightened up from helping the woman at the computer and picked up his cane from where it had been leaning against the back of her chair. 

"Do you have anything with The Rock?" 

"Sorry, what?" 

"The Rock," the boy repeated. "I like action films." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, trying to parse his request. Was he referring to some location where action films were often shot? Perhaps. Rocky? That was the name of a film, wasn't it? Sherlock had a vague memory of that one. He splayed his fingers out along the keyboard and tried to decide if a keyword search for "rock" was likely to yield useful results or hundreds of unrelated hits. 

He started to type, then backspaced, unusually hesitant, and of course John chose that exact moment to return to the desk. The boy shifted his gaze from Sherlock. "Come on, mate, just tell me where films with The Rock in them are." 

"Sure," John replied, and nodded at Sherlock. "Did you already do a search to see what's in?" 

"Er, no," Sherlock stammered, then recovered, tipping his chin up. "Catalogue froze. It happens quite a bit. Temperamental." He slid the keyboard away from himself, toward the monitor. "You might be better off just browsing the shelf to see what's available." He motioned toward the DVDs again. 

John wrinkled his brow at Sherlock, then stepped close so he could reach the keyboard. Sherlock pushed his chair back to give him space, even though the idea of being close enough to touch was frustratingly appealing. 

"Doesn't seem to be frozen anymore," John said, dropping down into his chair. He used two fingers to type in a search, then rattled off a list of four titles that were meant to be in stock, and the boy left the desk satisfied. 

Sherlock pulled his chair up to the computer again, squinting at the screen. "What did you...Dwayne Johnson?" 

"Yeah, that's The Rock's real na—" John cut himself off, staring at Sherlock. "You don't know who The Rock is, do you?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Clearly, he's an actor—" 

"You had no idea how to answer that boy's question because you didn't know who The Rock was." John was laughing at him, and though Sherlock didn't sense any malice in it, it wasn't a pleasant feeling. 

He raised his shoulders defensively. "I only work this desk two hours a week. How am I to be expected to keep up with all these young actors?" 

John shook his head, laughter still bubbling, and gestured at the screen. "Dwayne Johnson was born in 1972, which makes him only a year younger than me and I suspect quite a few years older than you. How old are you?" 

Sherlock stored away this new information about John's age, but declined to answer the question himself. John could look up his record in the borrower's database if he really wanted to know. "I'm not interested in the cinema," he said, counting himself fortunate John didn't point out that since Sherlock personally handled every item that was added to the library's collection, he must have seen the DVDs the boy wanted before. It was bad enough that he'd failed to answer a simple reference question. Coupled with the fact that he'd been rude to the lady with the rash, any interest John might have had in spending time with him was sure to be gone now. He was shocked at how disappointed he was—a few hours ago he’d been sure he could ignore the feelings that John elicited in him, but now he craved his attention.

John grinned. "It’s actually kind of cute." 

"Sorry, what? Cute?" 

"Mm-hmm." John's tongue darted out between his lips again, and Sherlock wondered if he was aware of how often he did that. "Because you come across as though you know everything. It makes the fact that you have some blind spots cute." 

"They aren’t blind spots. Just areas where I choose not to retain useless information because it would clutter up my hard drive." 

"Your hard drive. Are you a machine, now?" John giggled. 

If he had been a machine, Sherlock thought he would be overheating and shutting down right about now. This was very confusing. John clearly didn't like some of the rude things Sherlock did, but that didn't seem to stop him from liking him. And Sherlock liked him back. A lot. It was all rather overwhelming. He had been attracted to people before, but usually from afar, and never to anyone whose company he also enjoyed, and who appeared to return the sentiment. 

He wished he'd chosen to keep the seat in front of the computer terminal, because he could have pretended to use it while he tried to make sense of everything he was feeling right now. Instead he reached over to grab Anderson's forgotten pile of notes and started to make origami cranes out of them as a way to distract himself. He only finished one before his awkward contemplation was interrupted when the door to the community room in the front of the building flew open and a woman dressed in tight black leggings and a sports bra raced into the library proper. 

Irene Adler had been volunteering at the library for a few years now. Usually she showed up in an outfit just this side of indecent, gave whoever was working at the desk a salacious smile, and disappeared into the community room to lead one of her free public exercise classes. Sherlock had certainly never seen her like this before: barefoot, careful ponytail askew, a light sheen of sweat across her shoulders and stomach and a look of panic on her face as she skidded to a halt in front of their desk. "Quick! She's not breathing! Someone phone 999!" 

Sherlock stood automatically, squinting as he processed what he could glean from Irene: she herself was uninjured though quite shaken; a student in her class had fallen ill; she would have dialled for an ambulance herself but had left her phone at home this morning. He blinked once at her, then turned toward the cabinet that sat low behind the desk. Mostly office supplies, but also disposable gloves and a smattering of first aid items. "Naloxone?" he asked Irene. 

She shook her head, leaning her hands on the desk as she caught her breath. "No. It's an older woman. Heart attack, I think." 

"There's no age limit on overdosing!" Sherlock shouted at her. 

"She didn't OD, Sherlock! She told me she hadn't been feeling well at the beginning of class, and I told her to skip any poses that seemed too difficult. I didn’t know! It's only a gentle yoga class." 

"Well, I guess it wasn't gentle enough, was it?" Sherlock replied. 

"Shut up, both of you, now!" John sent the wheeled chair flying backwards as he stood up. He pointed at Irene, and then at the phone next to the computer monitor. "You, call an ambulance. They'll want as much info as you have about the patient. You, come with me." He crooked his finger at Sherlock and then took off toward the community room without waiting to see if he would follow. Sherlock paused for a split-second, trying to determine if he knew what to do for someone who was having a heart attack, then went after John, grateful that he hadn't been directed to phone the ambulance. He still remembered the argument he'd had with the dispatcher the last time he'd needed to dial 999 while on the reference desk. 

John hadn't even stopped to grab his cane, but he was running now, showing no trace of a limp. Sherlock filed the observation away as he caught up to him just inside the community room. There were a dozen people in the large room, all clustered around a bright purple yoga mat. A woman about Sherlock's mother's age lay half on it, not moving, her face frighteningly grey and slack. 

"Out of the way!" John shouted, and the crowd parted unquestioningly to let him through. He dropped to his knees beside her, lifting her wrist to feel for a pulse. "Is there a defibrillator in the library?" 

"No," Sherlock replied, squatting beside him. They'd started stocking the naloxone after a series of overdoses over the past couple of years, but no one had ever had a heart attack in the library. 

"All right." John let the woman's arm fall. He pointed to one of the people still standing uselessly nearby. "You there in the pink shorts. Go and stand in front of the building to direct the paramedics when they arrive." The woman in the pink shorts followed John's order without hesitation. 

Sherlock frowned after her for a moment, then rose to his feet. John had started doing chest compressions on the old lady, ignoring everyone else in the room. "Everyone back off and give him some more room," Sherlock barked, slightly astonished when the crowd obeyed him as readily as they had John. 

John continued the compressions, then cursed as he checked for a pulse again. To Sherlock's surprise, he tipped the woman's head back and began to give her mouth-to-mouth. Sherlock thought the current CPR advice was to use only chest compressions unless one was trained, but John clearly knew what he was doing. After he gave her a couple of rescue breaths, he returned to the compressions, cycling through the CPR steps until on the third try he finally detected a pulse. 

"Yes!" John pumped his fist in the air once, then looked up at the people who were still watching, although at a slightly more respectful distance. "Does anyone know her name?" 

"Barbara or Barb, I think." Irene had returned to the room, lingering at the edge of the crowd. "She's been coming every week for a few months. I thought she was in pretty good shape for her age." 

"Hey, Barb, can you hear me?" John touched her cheek with one finger. She didn't open her eyes or respond in any manner, but John continued to speak to her. "I'm going to put you on your side in the recovery position. Don't worry, you'll be fine." He motioned for Sherlock to help turn her on her side, then continued to speak soft reassurances to the unconscious woman while he monitored her heart rate, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. 

It seemed to Sherlock as if an eternity passed before they heard the whine of sirens coming to a halt outside the building, though he knew the average arrival time for a London ambulance was only eight minutes. Two paramedics rushed into the room and John began rattling off answers to their questions. Sherlock could've told them some of what they wanted to know—the woman clearly had a pre-existing heart problem, and had just this morning gone to the chemist to get a new prescription filled—but he was unable to pull his focus away from John. He watched him stand to make room for the paramedics. There was a small hitch in the first couple of steps he took, as he shook off the stiffness of kneeling, but after that, his limp did not return. Someone handed him a bottle of water to rinse his mouth, and Sherlock had to look away because the sight of John swallowing was disturbingly attractive.

Once the woman was loaded onto a stretcher and transferred to the ambulance outside, Sherlock walked with John back to the reference desk. Most of the library had returned to normal. Irene would not resume her class today, but kids were pulling their parents into the children's room for story hour and Lestrade and Donovan had taken over the desk in Sherlock and John's absence.

"John!" Lestrade greeted him with a thump on the back, as if they had known each other for more than a few hours. "I heard you saved that woman's life. Not bad for your first day!" 

John smiled, but gave a self-effacing shrug. "I just happened to be in the right place at the right time." 

"No," Sherlock said, and John, Lestrade and Donovan all turned to look at him. "He did save her life. It was good...very good.” That seemed faint praise, indeed. He scrolled through a mental list of words he normally never thought to apply to other people. “He was brilliant." 

John's smile broadened and he ducked his head. "I got her breathing again, but she had already suffered cardiac arrest. There's no guarantee she'll recover." 

"You were brilliant," Sherlock repeated. 

"You really think so?" 

"Yes." Sherlock stepped closer to him, mindless of the others who were crowded around the desk. 

John looked up at him. Sherlock saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "Thank you." 

"You've been holding out on me," Sherlock said. 

"What do you mean?" John didn't step away; in fact he turned slightly so they were more directly face-to-face. 

"You're more than just a librarian. You've had medical training."

John shook his head. "Not formally, no. But when I was in the army I did work with the medics quite a bit. Record keeping, that sort of thing. Guess I picked up a few techniques along the way." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Surprised you didn't deduce it just by looking at me." 

"I should have. There's always something I miss." 

They stood staring at each other for several long seconds until Lestrade intervened. "You both look like you could use a break after all that excitement. You don't need to stick around here—shift's almost over anyway." 

Sherlock's own heart was racing, though he doubted Lestrade understood why. He reached out and touched John's arm. "He's right. They can handle the desk for us." 

John shifted his gaze from where Sherlock had touched him to Lestrade and Donovan. "Er, right. I guess I could use a little break. Thank you." He turned toward the reference office. 

"Wait, John!" Donovan held out the cane he had left behind at the desk. 

"Oh, huh." He smiled sheepishly and took it back from her, then turned again to walk away, the shaft of the cane held loosely in his hand. Sherlock watched him leave, wondering how he could stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any medical errors in this chapter! Also, I don't know if any libraries in England are stocking naloxone, but it's starting to spread through libraries in the U.S. We don't have it at my workplace yet, but other local libraries do. Here's a recent story about it: <https://www.timesunion.com/news/article/Area-librarians-are-unlikely-heroes-in-fight-13164137.php>


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock watched John walk away, then reluctantly turned in the other direction, although the thought of sitting alone in his office had lost its usual appeal. He hadn't gone more than a few steps before he heard John call his name. He paused, astounded at how rapidly his mood could change with just a single word spoken by John. 

John jogged a few steps to catch up with him. "Where are you going?" 

Sherlock waved a hand toward the back of the library. "My office, where else?" 

"Oh. Do you...would you mind if I came with you? Your office seems...quieter than mine." John looked up at him, lips slightly parted, and Sherlock knew he wasn't reading him wrong this time. 

"It is," Sherlock said. "No one goes back there unless they have to. You and Stamford were the only visitors I've had all day." 

"Really? Must be lonely." 

"No, I like being alone. People are idiots," he said, then, seeing a flash of confusion cross John's face, quickly added, "Most people. Not you, though. I don't mind if you want to...hang out in my office." God, he sounded like a teenaged boy now, but John didn’t seem to notice.

"Yeah." John nodded. "Okay. I think I do." 

They turned and walked side by side through the library, Sherlock's heart tripping each time their shoulders brushed together. 

As soon as he closed his office door behind them, Sherlock panicked. What was he supposed to do now? John wanted to spend time alone with him. All right. That was clear. And now here they were. Alone. Together. In the library, with more than two hours left in the workday. Suddenly his quiet, cluttered office felt far too small and unreasonably warm. 

He took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. When he turned around he found John staring at him, licking his lips. The room's temperature rose a few more degrees. 

"Look at you," John said. "Wearing that suit." 

Sherlock frowned. "Lestrade and Stamford both wear suits." 

"Not like you, they don't," John said and then coughed once. "Sorry." He turned and gestured toward the workbench, which was still piled with the books that needed covering, plus a shipment of new books that had arrived earlier. "Show me how you do those covers so fast, like you were this morning." 

"Er, all right." Sherlock reached for a book. "I'll need to stand where you are." 

"No," John said, and plucked the book from his hand. He turned his back to Sherlock and pulled the dust jacket off the book, then grabbed one of the plastic sheets to cover it. He spread both on the workbench. "Come on. Show me how to do it." He raised his shoulders once, beckoning. 

Sherlock hesitated only a moment, then stepped forward so he was standing behind John, his chest nearly touching his back. He reached around John's body with both arms to straighten the plastic cover on the bench and John put his hands on top of Sherlock's. They were warm and slightly rough, and showed no sign of a tremor now. Sherlock stood still for two long breaths, then spoke John's name to the back of his head. 

"Yes?" John turned his head slightly to the side; Sherlock could see the creases at the corner of one eye, and a hint of dark blue. 

"I may have been mistaken, earlier," Sherlock told him. "When I said I wasn't available." 

John didn't respond immediately, and Sherlock froze. Somehow he'd misread the situation and gone too far. What had he been thinking? He pulled his hands away from John and stepped back, but before he could find the words to apologise, John turned toward him, reaching to grab Sherlock's wrists and pull him close again. What? Sherlock's brain stuttered for a moment, unable to process what was happening until John's lips against his startled him back to awareness. John was kissing him; they were standing in the middle of Sherlock's office kissing while John leaned against the workbench and Sherlock stood in his shirtsleeves, patches of sweat no doubt visible beneath his arms. 

"Wait." Sherlock broke off the kiss and John released his hold on his wrists. 

"Sorry." John wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, lowering his head. "Sorry, I should've asked first. I just thought—" 

"No, no! It's fine." It was more than fine—it was perfect. It was all his dreams come true except it hadn't even been a dream because something like this would never have occurred to him until he saw John this morning, but— "I don't want anyone to interrupt us." He nodded toward the office door, with its large window set into the top half. Even though people normally avoided coming back here unless they absolutely had to, he thought this afternoon might have a higher chance of unexpected visitors, as word spread of John's heroics in saving a life. 

"Oh, right." John crossed his arms over his chest, eyes darting back and forth around the office as if he might find some corner where they could hide. Actually— 

"Follow me." Sherlock grabbed John’s wrist and pulled him across the office. 

John stumbled the first couple of steps and then found his footing. "What are you...oh," he said as Sherlock yanked open the door to the archives. "Good idea."

Sherlock flicked the switch to turn on the dim overhead lights and stepped inside. The room was filled end-to-end with shelves towering higher than Sherlock's head, each one packed tight with old books, ledgers and archival envelopes. A dehumidifier older than Sherlock coughed along in the corner, providing cover for any noise they might make. 

"Bit dusty," John commented, pushing the door shut behind them. 

"Private, though," Sherlock said. "Unless anyone in reference needs to get a city directory or something." He pointed through the stacks, to where another door opened into the reference office. 

John wrinkled his nose, then turned to Sherlock and shrugged, stepping in close. "The stacks will hide us." He slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist and they began to kiss again, quickly moving from the rather chaste kiss they'd shared before to a more intimate exploration, tongues meeting and hands roaming over each other's bodies. John pressed himself against Sherlock, and Sherlock let himself slouch so they would be closer in height. The edge of John's plastic staff badge poked Sherlock in the chest, and in the heat of the moment they bumped into one of the shelves, sending a trickle of debris raining down. Sherlock pulled away from John, shaking decaying leather crumbs out of his hair. He frowned, looking around the room and seeing the dusty catacombs in a way he never had before. Not very practical for an impromptu snogging session, as it turned out. 

"Hold on a minute." He turned away from John. In the near corner there was an old wooden book trolley, its flat top piled high with disintegrating newspaper clippings. He swept the pile of clippings onto the floor, then brushed his hands on his trousers, leaving tracks of crumbling newsprint down his legs. 

"Sherlock!" John sounded horrified at his treatment of the old papers. 

"They've all been microfilmed. No need to keep the clippings." He reached out and grabbed a fistful of John's cardigan and shirt, and John came willingly toward him. The empty book trolley shifted a few inches beneath their weight before settling against the wall, Sherlock perched on the trolley's edge, legs spread so John could stand between his thighs as they kissed. 

"No wheels loose on this one?" 

"No, they made things better in the old days." He caught John's mouth with his again, pulling him close. Too close, possibly—Sherlock couldn't disguise how aroused he was at this point, but John didn't seem to object. In fact, he slipped a hand between them and stroked over the front of Sherlock's trousers. 

"This okay?" he asked, as he began to fumble with Sherlock's belt. 

"God, yes," Sherlock replied, and pushed John's hand out of the way so he could unfasten his own trousers more quickly. 

"Keep going," John said, tugging at the waistband of his pants. Sherlock pushed them down as far as he could while sitting, just enough to free his cock of the fabric. In a sudden flash of self-consciousness—he was sitting half-naked in the archives of the library with a man he’d only known for five hours—he drew his hand down over himself, but that only served to entice John more. 

"Ah, your hands," John murmured, and folded his own hand over Sherlock's. Not exactly what Sherlock would've expected him to focus on, but he wasn't about to complain. His mind was already whirring and stuttering at the unfamiliar sensation of another person's touch. John gave his hand—and cock—a light squeeze, then let go, dropping to his knees in front of the trolley. 

Sherlock moaned as he realised what John intended to do and put both his hands on the trolley on either side of his thighs to steady himself. "John," he gasped. 

"Mm. Just so you know, I don't usually do this on the first date," John said. 

"It's not exactly a date." 

"Not how I usually spend the first day of a new job, either." John grinned up at him. Sherlock thought he could get lost in that smile, and the way it made John's whole face soften, but then John gave his cock another stroke and leaned forward, sliding the first couple of inches into his mouth. 

"Oh my God." Sherlock thought he might come instantaneously, and that might be for the best, because if John kept this up for long Sherlock was probably going to yell loud enough to be heard in the reference office. He closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the book trolley, his fingernails digging into the varnished wood. John held Sherlock in his mouth, working his tongue around the tip of his cock. 

Sherlock didn't have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, but John seemed to know what he was doing, so Sherlock let him do all the work, keeping his own focus on not coming immediately. But after only a minute or so, John pulled back abruptly. "Sorry," he gasped, and then sneezed twice, sending a puff of dust floating up from the trolley Sherlock sat on. 

Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall behind him for a moment. "Really hope it's not me you're allergic to." 

John giggled and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. "Pretty sure it's the dust." 

"I'll get my landlady in here. She's always trying to dust my flat."

"Does your landlady happen to have another flat to rent? I’m still looking for a place I can afford on my salary."

"No, but I wouldn’t mind a flatmate. Come up here." Sherlock reached for John's shoulder—yes, that was definitely where he'd been shot, the left shoulder. It wasn't bothering him now, though, and he showed no trace of the tremor. His hands were very steady. He drew them up through Sherlock's pubic hair as he stood. They both reached for John's belt at the same time, getting in each other's way trying to unfasten his trousers until John ceded, letting Sherlock work the button and zip open. 

John leaned in to resume kissing as Sherlock freed his cock from his pants. "Yes," he groaned against Sherlock’s mouth. "Your hands, your hands," he panted. "I fucking love your hands." 

Well, that answered the question of what to do next. Sherlock wrapped his right hand around both their cocks—they were roughly equal in size, which honestly shouldn't have surprised him. John definitely walked like a much larger man. Between the two of them they were already leaking enough that Sherlock's hand slid smoothly as he stroked them both in time to his own rapid breathing. 

John made small gasping noises and Sherlock tried to be as quiet as him, though he also wanted to shout John's name as loud as he could. He settled for letting John’s tongue fill his mouth—he could taste his own sweat on John’s lips, and never would have suspected how erotic that would be. He promised himself that if this ever happened again, he would make sure they were someplace where they could take their time and make as much noise as they wanted, instead of having to confine themselves to this frantic, furtive rush.

John's gasps changed tenor, and his grip on Sherlock's back and hair tightened as he broke off their kiss. Sherlock's body responded, and he gave up all attempts at holding himself back. "Do it," he whispered, and sped up his hand, then buried his face against John's cardigan to keep himself silent. 

John groaned and rose up on his toes as he spilled over Sherlock's hand. Sherlock curled forward involuntarily as his own climax overtook him; he would've fallen off the trolley if John hadn't been there to hold him in place. 

"God, oh God, that was—" 

The door at the far side of the room opened, cutting John off mid-sentence. They both froze, John's arms wrapped around Sherlock, both their cocks still in Sherlock’s hand. Neither dared to breathe as they heard someone take several steps into the dimly lit room. City directories, please, Sherlock thought—prayed, really, to whatever god watched over those who sneaked into back rooms at work to get off with men they'd only just met. 

The prayer worked. There was the sound of a large book being dragged from the shelf—not a directory, one of the old atlases—and then the footsteps retreated and the door opened and closed once more. 

They let go of each other and John began to giggle. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." 

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock knew they were both laughing too loud, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He watched John's whole body shake as he tried to quiet down, and knew without a doubt that there would be a next time for the two of them. Maybe it would be in Sherlock's bed, where they could gasp and laugh together and not care how loud they were. This was not some one-time office affair. This was the start of a whole new life for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [0foxgiven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0foxgiven) for bidding on me, and [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiddenlacuna), [Ship221B](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ship221b) and [SherlocksSister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlocksSister) for helping out with this! (And shoutout to everyone from the [Fic Writers' Retreat](https://ficwritersretreat2018.tumblr.com/) for all their support, including inspiring me to move the sex scene from Sherlock's office into the archives.)
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has commented, especially those who have said they would like to see more of this. I, too, would enjoy reading more cataloger!Sherlock and reference librarian!John, but, alas, I have learned the hard way that writing long AUs is not for me. Maybe someday I will do some one-shots in this universe, instead. I hope you enjoyed this little bit in the meantime.
> 
> You can follow me on [Tumblr](http://missdaviswrites.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/missdaviswrites) (though I'm not that active on Twitter) or subscribe to me[ here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis) if you want to read more of my works. I think my next project will be a longish, slightly less angsty and more action-y sequel to [Breakable](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522717/chapters/5605520), if I manage to convince myself that I can write it without screwing it up. Stay tuned!


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